


Belac

by Sensue



Series: Suitcase of Memories [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherhood AU, Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Psychic Abilities, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensue/pseuds/Sensue
Summary: After the deaths of John Winchester and Pastor James Murphy, Caleb Reaves wants to do something to commemorate their lives. Post "In my time of dying".
Series: Suitcase of Memories [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887088
Kudos: 2





	Belac

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter ties in with "In the Company of Dragons" By R.C. James and "The Best & Worst of Times"/ "Charge Their Doings" By R.C. James/Tidia located on Fanfiction.net.

_Late November 2006_

It was a small shop, in a non-descript area of the town. Caleb Reaves imagined most people probably put up their noses and just walked past it without a second glance. But, the shop's reputation was incomparable: it was clean, professional, organized, and the artists were top-notch. These people would give him exactly what he wanted. The risks involved were minimized.

He'd opened the door and winced as the annoying 'ching-ching' sound rung aloud, announcing his entrance into the parlor. For a moment, Caleb closed his eyes for a moment as he considered his reasoning behind doing this.

_Things are so screwed up_ , he thought as he ran his hands through his hair. He walked around the shop, staring at the artwork that literally covered the walls and countertop. There really was no need to look at them—he'd already made his choice. Caleb pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket, staring at it once more.

This was something that he _had_ to do.

There was nothing out there that would make him feel better—Reaves knew that in his heart, but it was a way to connect with the past. It was a way that he could honor their memories; their lives and engrain it within himself so that he would never forget them. Never forget their stories, their lives, or the legacy they'd left behind for them.

"Can I help you?" A young woman asked him from across the room, startling him. "You lookin'? Or you know what you want?"

He turned just in time to see the exotic woman force her gaze away from his ass. If this were any other time in his life…he would've given her a flirtatious grin and started hitting on her. But, he just wasn't in the mood.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could picture Pastor Jim lying dead in his church; blood was everywhere—seeping into his clothes, his hands… The death of John Winchester shortly after still shocked him deeply. The man had been fine when he'd spoken with him; the doctor had cleared him to go 'home', while his eldest son lay dying down the hall. When Dean had suddenly woken—his injuries healed as if by a miracle as John died; it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened. And he couldn't get any of it out of his mind; it was eating away at him—all of his training, his abilities, his strength—none of it mattered; they had died anyway and he'd been unable to stop it from happening. His father mentioned Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in passing, worried about his son. Caleb just shook his head at him; PTSD was the least of their worries now. The Guardian and the Knight were gone. Factions were rising up against The Brotherhood. The Yellow-Eyed-Demon was attacking them at full force. There was a change in the air—as if something evil was stalking him. But, when he looked, no one was there. He felt as if it were slowly driving him mad.

It was one of the reasons why he had decided to do this; in a way, it would mark him forever in their debt…in this life and the next.

Caleb handed her the paper, wanting to see her expression—hear her thoughts on his choice. If it was something she hated or didn't want to do—he'd look elsewhere; he didn't want a botched up job. Thankfully, that didn't seem to be the case. If he didn't know any better, he would've sworn that she was in awe.

"Dude, you draw this?" She arched her eyebrow at him, the piercing she had rose and pulled at the motion.

Caleb felt his face flush slightly, "Yeah."

"Well, it's great work. By the way, the name's Shelly." Shelly smiled at him, holding a hand out. Her arms were tattooed beautifully with floral patterns—each flower the color of the rainbow. It blunted his first impression of her. He'd pictured her to be a 'tough' chick—Sarah Connor-like biker chick. He read her—she was into beauty and thought of tattoos as living art. In a way, she reminded him of his mother. A budding artist with a big heart and a dream.

"I'm Caleb." He introduced himself and shook her hand.

She stared at the picture again, then held it out in front of him—trying to picture how it would look like on him. "I wouldn't have pictured you with a fantasy piece—when you walked in I pictured you with as a tribal art arm-band type of guy."

"Looks can be deceiving." Reaves gave her a smirk but quickly returned back to business. "So, what do you think, Shelly? Can you pull it off?"

Shelly smirked back at him, hiding the fact that she was slightly taken back by his lack of come-on lines. Obviously, most of the men who walked in tried to flirt with her. "Baby—I can pull off anything." She shook her head at the man and studied the image intently. She held the image out to him, explaining things to him. "This detail, the colors you've picked…it's going to take some time. Hell, it'll take me all day. And it's custom. If you want it this size, you're talking about a thousand, dude. You still in?"

"Definitely. You want it upfront?" He'd read her, knowing she was worried that he wouldn't be able to afford it. It certainly wasn't as if he'd walked in dressed like Joshua Sawyer in his Armani suits; as always, he'd picked clothing that suited his style—he didn't care about brand-names. To him, the cheaper, the better; it was easier to replace after a hunt. Just because he was the heir to the Ames millions didn't mean that he was going to take advantage of his family or start acting like a stuck-up snob.

She nodded, walked back over to the counter. She'd handed him some paperwork and started writing an invoice. "I charge 50 upfront, and then 50 when it's done. You need to read and sign those. They're just standard legal papers: consent forms, instructions for aftercare, and f.a.q.'s on tattoos." Shelly handed him the papers, then went into the back to get things set up for them.

Caleb signed the forms, one by one, exasperated at the amount of paperwork one had to do in order to just get a tattoo. Shelly had come out of the backroom and checked over the paperwork. She'd charged him $500 initially and told him she'd adjust the price at the end if needed.

"So, Mr. Reaves, where do you want it?" Shelly led him to the backroom and motioned for him to sit on the lighted medical table that was centered in the room.

"The right side of my chest, under the collarbone, and I'd like the wings to arch up over my shoulder." He pulled off his shirt and pointed to exactly where he wanted the graphic.

"And the sword and cross are just going to wrap around your ribs?" Shelly touched his ribs lightly.

Caleb moved her hand slightly, adjusting her angle. "I don't want to wrap it around; the sword and cross would just lie slightly under the claws."

Shelly nodded, "I understand. I'm going to go wash up and then I'll start on the outline of your tattoo using temporary alcohol-based paint. If you want something adjusted, I can clean off the area with alcohol and re-draw it. Once it's where you want it, then I'll switch to the permanent ink."

Caleb watched her as she washed her hands; starting to relax a little bit. The place was clean, everything looked to be sterilized and Shelly seemed confident that she could do an amazing job.

"I'm just curious," she called out from over her shoulder, "Why a dragon?"

Caleb fought against his natural inclination to lie to the young woman; it was his usual M.O. to just make a joke or out-right lie when asked a personal question. He'd learned early on in his life that questions needed to be answered 'correctly' or else people would view him with suspicion. People don't want the truth; they would rather live in their cozy little ignorant worlds. You always needed to tailor 'truth' to make it fit in with their ideas of normal. And _normal_ was always forgotten. It was better to be forgotten—especially in their line of work.

In this instance, he wanted to tell her the truth. She was young—but there was something in her eyes that said that she would understand; she was sincere. Perhaps it was his own sense of guilt or grief that drove him to tell her the truth, but whatever it was, the truth came pouring out of him—like a drunk man speaking to a bartender. He'd wanted to talk to someone outside his circle—outside the Brotherhood and found himself comforted by a stranger.

Caleb licked his lips and wrapped his arms across his chest until she was ready. It was cold. She'd noticed it and flicked on a space heater that was next to him. She'd gotten her tools ready and had him lay back so that she could reach him. She'd wiped his skin with alcohol to cleanse it. Once the skin was clean, she'd reached for a pen and started drawing the outline.

As she worked, he talked.

"That's Belac, the red dragon."

"Huh?" She stopped drawing for a moment and looked up at him. "The dragon has a name, already? Most wait for the ink to dry first before naming things."

Caleb laughed, "The dragon is from a childhood story. I was about thirteen years old when I'd heard it the first time. It was just this made-up fairytale that Pastor Jim used to tell my – _nephew_ Sam when he was a baby. The stories were just exaggerations of our daily lives and the 'dragons' who protected Sam were us. He could take the most boring day of your life and turn it into an adventure."

Shelly's eyes lit up as she'd figured it out. "Belac is Caleb spelled backward. That's cool." She'd finished the outline, so she'd handed Caleb a mirror. "Well, what do you think? Do you want anything moved before I start on the ink?"

Caleb stared at the mirror and nodded. "It's perfect. I was actually surprised that you didn't transfer the image first, but your work is remarkable."

Shelly rolled her eyes, "I don't do 'iron-on' tattoos, pal. I'm an _artist_."

Caleb put his hands up in surrender as he smiled. "Sorry. I know how you _artists_ get."

"Do you, now?" Shelly raised her eyebrows as if she was insulted. He knew that she was just playing—it was one of the benefits of being psychic.

He lay back down on the table like she'd indicated, and shook his head. "My mother was an artist—a painter."

"A painter—Reaves, Reaves…" Shelly thought aloud, "You can't mean Amelia Reaves? She painted those breathtaking ocean pieces, didn't she?"

Hearing his mother's name still brought made his chest tighten. He'd just been a little boy when he'd watched his father murder her and then kill himself. It was something that he knew that he'd never forget. He forced himself to answer her, "Yeah, she was my mother."

Shelly seemed to know the history behind her death; hell, anyone who knew her work, knew the story behind it. Caleb didn't know whether to be proud or disgusted about the fact that her work had been immortalized after her brutal murder and his father's suicide. Most of the time, he was disgusted and worked to buy—or in some cases, steal—her paintings back. Mac had started the collection after he'd bought him one of her paintings for his thirteenth birthday. Every year, his adoptive father bought him a new one. But, he'd been impatient and wanted all of them back so he started making finding them a priority.

Thankfully, Shelly didn't bring up her death—as if she knew how tortured he was about it. "So, you've got her talent then? I mean the detailing on this exquisite. There's even writing on the sword: Semper Fi."

"I paint a little. But I haven't in a while—things have been–crazy. The guy I was telling you about—Pastor Jim?"

"The storyteller," Shelly remembered.

"Yeah. He—uh—died in my arms a few weeks ago. He was attacked in his church and didn't make it."

Shelly covered her mouth, "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

"That's okay." Caleb waved off her sympathy. It wouldn't do for him to get weepy in front of a girl. He had a rep to maintain. "The cross," he pointed at the picture, "represents what he gave me: Faith. You see, after my parents—I'd been sent to live with my grandmother and she'd passed away a few years later, so I was sort of on my own for a while. But, when I was twelve, I'd met Pastor Jim and Mac. Jim was the first one to accept me for who I was—he didn't see me as just a 'problem child' or a rebellious teenager. He saw me—the real me and I'd been convinced that he'd talked Mac into adopting me. I used to do some pretty gutsy things—just to get a rise out of them. I guess I just wanted to make sure that Mac didn't change his mind about keeping me; I was scared that he'd just give up and kick me out. But Jim, he'd talk to me and tell me that I was apart of their family now. And that's all I really wanted, to be apart of a family again. He'd tell me to keep my faith. Jim gave me faith and Mac gave me love. I never want to forget that."

As he spoke to her, Shelly had been spraying him down with an antiseptic and anesthetic. She'd moved to prepare the needle and ink and slowly prepared his skin for the first pass.

Caleb grimaced slightly as he felt the cold needle against his skin, but the pain wasn't too bad at all. "A few months before I turned fourteen, we'd met John and his boys, Sam and Dean. John represents the sword…strong, resilient, unbending, and the toughest son a bitch you ever met. I wanted to be just like him. He'd been through war; he'd lost his wife and was responsible for their two small kids, but he didn't give up. He fought and did his best to make sure that no one else had to suffer that kind of pain. He was my hero. John taught me about life."

"So, he was a marine?" Shelly asked, "Isn't 'Semper Fi' the marine motto?"

"Yeah, he was a soldier—through and through. And he taught me everything he knew; he was my mentor."

Shelly noticed the past tense, "Was?" She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder, noticing that his mood was suddenly somber.

Caleb closed his eyes at the wave of sadness that sweep through him. She was a very empathetic woman. He'd wondered if she hadn't had a bit of the 'gift', as Missouri Mosley called it, herself.

"John died shortly after Pastor Jim. Complications after a serious car accident. He sacrificed his life to save his son." His voice was thick with repressed emotion. "It was unexpected."

Shelly stared down at the work she was doing. "So, this is for them? To commemorate them?"

Caleb reopened his eyes and stared down at his chest. He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. "Yes. I just—needed to do something. Sometimes, it's hard. I miss them so much. I expect them to walk in and tell me what to do next. Sometimes, I imagine Pastor Jim putting an arm around my shoulders and saying 'Caleb, my boy, have faith. Things happen for a reason. It's God's plan.' Of course, John would be there and he'd roll his eyes at Jim and just tell me to suck it up. They were my brothers…in the good times and the bad."

"You're lucky." Shelly truly meant it, "You're lucky to have had that."

"Thank you," Caleb said, thoughtfully.

_Hours later_

Caleb stood in front of the mirror staring in awe at the reflection. The tattoo was immaculate. Shelly had literally re-created his vision. It looked exactly how he'd drawn it.

The dragon shimmered as if it was on fire. 'Belac, the red dragon was forged in the Fires of the Underworld,' Pastor Jim would always start the stories with an explanation of the characters.

He closed his eyes. "Please, God, don't let me fail. Please, give me strength and courage to protect them…" He'd whispered the words so softly that no one would hear them but Pastor Jim's God.

Shelly had come up behind him, a huge smile lighting her face. She put her hands on her hips and bobbed her head up and down as she'd stared at him. "So, not bad for a girl, huh?"

He laughed with her, before wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Not bad at all."

Gently, but slowly so that she didn't try to knee him or something, he kissed her cheek. "Thank you, Shelly."

She pulled back in shock. "I didn't do anything. It's my job-."

"No, thank you for listening to me. I—uh—haven't really talked to anyone since they died. We're—uh—a bunch of guys. We don't talk about our feelings. And even if I did want to talk—well, my best friend, he's not doing so well—you know, since his dad died. So, basically, I just wanted to say thank you to you for being so understanding."

Shelly took a deep breath; she'd been trying to keep from tearing up at the emotional confession. "You're welcome, Caleb. I hope things go better for you in the future. Just—don't be afraid to be happy if something good comes along. You deserve it." She dabbed the antibiotic ointment on the tattoo before bandaging it with gauze.

Slowly, they walked back towards the office after she helped him slip his shirt back on—making sure it didn't pull on the newly inked skin. It would need time to heal—Caleb would need time to heal.

Caleb Reaves was not the first, nor the last, of her clients to come into her tattoo parlor because of the death of a loved one. She'd once drawn the face of a beautiful baby girl on the 'heart' of her grieving father. The man had broken down in her arms as he stared into an almost exact replica of the photo he'd brought to her. Most of her co-workers shied away from those types of clients, feeling uncomfortable talking about death, love, and hope. Many times, they would refer the client to her—knowing that she would know how to 'handle' them, as they so delicately put it.

Once, she'd watched her co-worker charge a grieving client extra for a tattoo—she'd put an end to that right away, and reported him to the boss. There was no reason for it. These people needed help, not to be taken advantage of.

Shelly stared up into the eyes of the tall brunette man, she felt bad for charging him at all. If it helped him get over the pain of his family's death…it should be for free. It was funny because he suddenly reached into his pocket and handed her an envelope of money to cover the final sale. It was as if he'd read her mind and then did the opposite. She opened the envelope and then gasped. "Caleb. This is too much. The tattoo only costs a thousand. You already paid a five hundred dollar down payment." She tried to hand him back the envelope. She'd been planning on giving him a significant discount.

Caleb backed away, refusing to take it back. "It's your tip. You've done an amazing job, Shelly. You deserve it." He gave her another peck on the cheek before turning to walk out.

"If this were any other time, Shelly…" He pulled away quickly and walked out of the door, giving her once last glance before disappearing.

"Bye," Shelly called out to him.

She stared at the door for several minutes, then sat down hard in a chair. She stared at the envelope in shock…he paid more than double the cost of her work. Yes, she'd listened to him—but it was nothing that she hadn't done for her other clients.

"Caleb Reaves…I don't think I'll ever forget you." She whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Fidesdragon for the inspirational hand-drawn dragon tattoo.


End file.
